


How do you say it

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs, The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Antisemitism, Dyslexia, Falling In Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-11 06:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17441513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: What happens when a retired gang boss makes it his mission to drive away a potential threat in the shape of a tattoo parlor across the street? Many unexpected things, that's what.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> With a scattering of other ships: Ian/Con, Sean/Zach/Andrew; other ships to be added.

“This is my street!”

“Our street.”

“Our street!”

“Antek, you have three more streets, please calm down.”

“No! He has no right!”

“He does. The rent is legal and everything. You can’t do anything about it, since you are not in _that_ business anymore, Antek.”

“If we don’t count his restaurant, and that place on—”

“Shush, Peacock.”

“Antek. What does he mean?”

“Nothing. I’m going to wreck him, Janek. He cannot just... move in and open his fancy-pancy salon. You know how high the rent is going to go?”

“My dear friend, you of all people shouldn’t worry about it.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Dandolo. I am going to ruin him, just you wait.”

“Antek, what did he mean by ‘that place’? What are you not telling me about?!”

“Shush, Janek. It’s all going to be all right.”


	2. First basket

The flower shop has been a blessing.

No matter how hard Anton tried, some of his kiddies were locked up when he was. In a twisted way, that helped: he wouldn’t have had a half of his term shaved off if they hadn’t been locked up. He had to rein in his temper and not rise to “That Crazy Russian” (“Crazy Jew”/“Crazy Faggot”), because constantly he had the thought that, if he did, his kiddies might suffer even more.

But there was another problem. A record on one’s name meant ruined chances for… everything: finding a job, housing, regaining dignity. No matter what the charges or the circumstances had been. And Anton wanted to give his kiddies practical skills, something that’d help them have some income. Even if he wasn’t their boss anymore, he still had a duty to them, and they were his.

And then Ian came one day, and Anton told Janek of his worries—and Ian, bless him, offered to teach a course of floral design. Even if they wouldn’t make it a career, Janek argued, it would be something beautiful that they can create with their own hands. There were official certificates and everything. Other kiddies, locked up with Anton’s (well, some of them were older than him, but he couldn’t help himself thinking about them as his) joined in, too.

He was grateful.

When he came out, he bought Janek and Con the most ridiculously expensive chocolate cake he could find (they made him eat a quarter of it).

Then, Dandolo gave him a loan for the first shop. He didn’t have to: Anton had enough money for that, but the flashy shit argued that his endorsement—considering his own shop specialized in exotic plants—would do them good.

Dandolo forgave the debt two months later in its entirety, засранец.

Anton’s kiddies have been happy to mess with delicate flowers and greenery and berries and whatnot, and he caved and obtained subscriptions to all the awfully expensive specialist magazines they wanted, and bought Misha, who has always shown the love for photography, a nice camera. To take photos for their Instagram.

He allows the kiddies to arrange all those pretty things for _The Stray_ , and several patrons has asked where the flowers came from; and _Ocio_ features their designs intermittently with Dandolo’s and Janek’s, depending on the mood and the theme of the evening. It has been going on so well that Anton has opened two more shops, hired more people (to his surprise, not everyone who came and asked questions—about the tattoos, the names, the accents—and got answers, went away).

And now… this. This _salon_.

Anton doesn’t have anything against tattoos (he wouldn’t have gotten them if he had), and Dandolo’s artists do an amazing work, and the latest tattoo Anton has gotten was from them: a gift, extending the sleeve from his left shoulder onto his left shoulder blade in a splash of colors with a scattering of stars left blank—a design drawn and made by Dandolo’s husband…

Call him a suspicious, even paranoid bastard, but he doesn’t want any high profile salon here. He doesn’t mind those who rob rich snobs for a tiny butterfly design, that’s their problem. But, please, somewhere else. The neighborhood is decent, but not expensive, and their joint efforts are keeping it so. But if some… some… moves in, that will affect everyone and drive away businesses that can’t afford to pay more rent than they do now, and with businesses the residents will leave, too.

While the window opposite of Anton’s first flower shop has been veiled, renovation going on inside, he has been scouting the salon a little.

A surprise is that their website is simple enough and designed to be viewed even on most basic devices, and Anton’s font replacer works well with it.

The design is sombre, in various shades of gray. The website states that _The ASC_ (Anton skips the part that deciphers the abbreviation) has been established five years ago and that they have two venues, the primary now moving to Anton’s street. They do all the basic stuff and sell aftercare supplies. Looking through the pages of the artists, he notes that the salon seems to lean to those new schools, or whatever they are called. Fine geometric patterns, watercolor. Fancy stuff, Anton likes that. Bright colors, pretty things.

He notes a couple of names for future research: Jeff Hunter, apparently an apprentice; HHenry, with a degree in graphic design. Mostly rather young people, smiling at the camera, tattoos peeking through sleeves and collars.

His eye catches a man with a mop of black hair—and a heavy gaze of steely eyes. One of those voluminous high collars like a coiled snake around his neck and over his shoulders, covering even a part of his chin. Viktor. With a “k”. Anton googles, and, yeah, he’s right that usually it is written with a “c” in English. Show-off. Nothing much about him: fifteen years of experience (must be around Anton’s age), no formal education in design or arts. Anton looks through the portfolio: it is exclusively geometry, and after flipping through a dozen photos he gets a sense of a distinct style. Fine lines and intricate patterns that turn almost three-dimensional while he’s uncoiling them; fractals, symmetry. Geometry of a human body encased in mathematics. Anton is both disturbed and intrigued.

There is no indication of which artists usually work at which venue.

At least he is sure the owner, or whoever is in charge, should show up at the opening of this new place.

He picks a basket from those used for arrangements, goes to the bakery at the corner. Chats with Sean while the basket is being filled with the freshest things they have. For all that Sean is sometimes difficult to read, the possibility of the neighborhood rising in price worries him, too. At least neither of his boyfriends needs to pay for university ( _college_ , Anton reminds himself), but there are other considerations besides that.

He returns with the heavy basket, now carrying the aroma of fresh bread, to his shop. It’s early and slow, and there’s only Misha frowning over some complicated thing on a rotating tray that is usually used for making cakes.

Anton leaves the basket on a table and goes to the cold storage. “Гвоздичка у нас найдется, золотце?” Misha doesn’t reply long enough that he walks out of the storage.

Misha looks rather… scandalized. “Boss, this is not a funeral!”

“It will be, when I’m through with them. But for now it’s just reconnaissance. Homecoming gifts are a tradition in America, are they not?”

“Housewarming, boss. Homecoming is a different thing.”

He dives back in and spots the section with crimson flowers and takes one, stroking the gentle folded petals. What are they called in English? Carnations, yes. Maybe.

This might be a rather shameful that, owning three flower shops, Anton cannot tell flowers apart. Well, he can tell a rose from... other flowers, but other than that... It’s not only the language thing—he does mix up the many names—but it’s that he simply cannot tell them apart. He can ask for “that one with frilly petals, sunshine” but that’s mostly it. Forget-me-nots are easy, roses are, too, when they look like roses and not some… strange things, but when the visuals stray from the usual...

Well. His kiddies are the experts, he just makes sure they have enough things to work with.

He goes back to the basket, puts the flower between a baguette and a thick round karavai, spots movement at the salon through the window, fixes his tie and steps out. The window is pretty simple, with the same gray and _The ASC_ written in a pretty severe sans serif with a knot-like design of fine lines underneath. Viktor’s work, perhaps?

He opens the door, a small bell chiming, and walks in.

“Henry, please leave the bowl there!”

Standing by the door, apparently unnoticed for now, he takes his chance to look around. It is spacious, made more so by the clever arrangement of lines and symmetry. The entrance area holds a reception desk, and further in there are two sets of armchairs around two low tables with albums placed neatly on them. Photos of works are also on the walls, in plain gray frames of various sizes. There is a big frame on the wall behind the reception, with “Design Of The Week” in the same sans serif. That frame is empty for now.

His attention is inevitably drawn to the figure beyond the reception area, bent over a counter. Long lean legs in dark gray pants with immaculate creases, soft shoes, narrow hips. A darker turtleneck hints at very nice arms, and the back of the head is of a handsome shape, but the unruly black hair ruins the refined, well-pressed looks. Plus a strange undercut, the lower part of the head completely shaved.

The handsome one shifts. And Anton nearly cries at the sight of the dinosaur bones of the spine becoming visible under the turtleneck. And there is that strange collar. So this must be the Viktor with a “k”. He has a low commanding voice as he instructs someone further in the salon to move things to his liking, and his voice is not smooth like Dandolo’s, but—

Anton shakes his head—and just as well, because the man turns to him. Yes, that’s Viktor. His steely eyes have that wet brightness that goes in contrast with the heavy gaze.

“Ah. Anton, I presume?”

Anton grips the basket, because… Because, he’s gotten used to people here butchering his name, pronouncing it with the accent on “a”—but this man does it right, with an accent on “o”.

“Вы русский?” Anton blurts out.

The man smiles, and there are—what are they called?—crow’s feet at his eyes that soften the whole expression. “No. But my parents are.”

“How do you know my name?”

“People here talk a lot about you and your shops. They like you. I’m sorry, I don’t know the rest of your name. Viktor Watcher.” He sticks out a hand.

Anton shakes himself, then moves the basket to his left hand and closes his fingers over Viktor’s. They are long and his palm is cold, as though he’s just pressed it to the insides of a freezer.

“Антон Рогалёв,” Anton murmurs.

Viktor certainly should smile more, it suits him. “And the patronymic?”

“Яковлевич.”

“Антон Яковлевич. Приятно познакомиться.”

“Me, too...” He says automatically, lagging at switching languages.

Then he realizes they are still holding hands, and lets Viktor’s fingers slip out of his grasp. Brings the basket between them. “A gift. For your first day. Something to sustain you, renovation and moving are exhausting, I know that well.”

“Quite. Thank you.” Viktor takes the basket, lifts the cover slightly, and those crow’s feet appear again as he takes something out. Anton looks as long fingers with short round nails stroke crimson petals. There is something mesmerizing about the way Viktor moves, a careful precision of gestures. It unbalances Anton and…

“Well. I shall… go, then,” he says, stepping back.

“Come whenever you want, Антон Яковлевич.”

“Yes. Thank you.” He leaves the salon, crosses the street without looking for cars, falls into the shop…

And realizes he hasn’t found out anything of much use.


	3. Second basket

There are such days in those warm weeks of May when all of Anton’s venues are slow. _The Stray_ is empty in the mornings on weekends, most people preferring to sleep in or take a walk. The kiddies who are supposed to be at the shop have gone to _Ocio_ to design arrangements for the night Dandolo is planning to have in several weeks’ time. Misha is there to take photos of potential places for arrangements, and even Zhenechka has gone to _Ocio_ to make orders for supplies.

So, it is just Anton trying not to get restless. At least it smells nice in the shop, and humidifiers save him from the dry heat of the street, and if it gets unbearable, he can always lock the door and go to the cold storage.

In the past couple of weeks, _The ASC_ hasn’t done anything suspicious: they had a couple of clients already, the reviews people leave on their social media pages are favorable (if impossible for Anton’s TTS to decipher, so he had to ask the kiddies to give him the gist). The only artists working permanently at that place across the street seem to be that boy Jeff, Henry with the double “H”—and Viktor. Everyone else comes and goes. Through the window, Anton watches Viktor moving. Viktor is the one to open the salon in the morning and to close it fourteen hours later, and Anton still doesn’t know where he lives, whether he has a car. Maybe he doesn’t, and comes to work on foot. Anton debates tailing him.

Even in the warmth of May Viktor seems comfortable covered chin to toe in the gray. He walks with precision like he does everything else, a small unassuming backpack on both shoulders. Two weeks ago, there was also a long jacket of a rather military-like cut. Long legs eating the distance like nothing. Viktor has nice calves and a certain grace that makes Anton think he might be a good dancer, or perhaps he’s doing martial arts.

Anton watches him a lot. It is essential for any operation.

He knows Viktor has already visited the bakery (Sean is wary), Dandolo’s flower shop (Dandolo is thoughtful), Janek’s shop (Ian was absent, but Con was there and he said he couldn’t “get” their new neighbor) and just about everyone on the street.

Except for Anton’s shop. Perhaps Viktor took offence at him not visiting the salon again? Or maybe it’s an elaborate insult.

Well, then. Anton will ignore him, too, for a time.

He’s skimming through articles of the latest “Print and Word” issue, noting empty exercises in ego-boosting that seem to have grown in numbers since he left that part of himself behind… And then he feels a presence. He looks up from his phone, frowning because he has missed the ringing of the bell on the door—and here he is, the man of his thoughts, so muted among the greens, blues, purples, reds, yellows, gangly like a… A stork. Wait, no. A heron. Цапля серая, with smooth long feathers, a snake-like neck…

“You have beautiful plants here,” Viktor says without even turning to him. Козел.

“ _Noctis_ has exotics,” Anton replies.

Viktor moves—slowly, as though he’s really interested in the flowers—to the baskets. “There is beauty in the seemingly mundane, too. It’s up to you to look for it.” The way Viktor pronounces some words—like his own name, that first time—is distinct, but Anton is bad at placing English accents.

“Are you interested in plants?”

“As a source of inspiration,” Viktor finally looks at him, folds his hands behind his back. “There is geometry to be found in the petals, leaves, arrangement of veins. I draw upon those patterns in my works.”

“I saw your works, yes,” Anton says, getting from behind the counter and going close to Viktor. The man is taller than him nearly by a full head. Something gray glints under the collar, but Anton doesn’t get a good look.

“You are familiar with my works?” There is certainly a surprise in Viktor’s tone.

He shrugs, stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. “Had a look at your website. Very nice.”

“Nice.”

He shrugs again, tries to not get defensive. “I’m not an artist.”

“Yet you have flower shops.”

“Don’t have to be a florist myself to open one. But I can see a good skill and a tremendous amount of work put into acquisition of that skill, as well as into its application. Do you use any software? Some…” He waves. He doesn’t know the word even in Russian. “Tool to make it symmetrical?”

“No. It is solely by my… глазомер… ability to measure without tools, and the steadiness of my hand.” There is no bragging in Viktor’s tone. Strange.

“Clever hands,” Anton notes, looking over the baskets. The heavy monstrosities at their feet… No, impractical. The smaller ones, then, and not those with long handles… “Which one do you like the most? Out of the baskets.” He looks at Viktor—catches his gaze, a raised brow.

He nods at the baskets. Viktor should be looking at them.

Viktor takes his time, leaning towards the smaller ones on the upper shelf of the _étagère_ , bends lower. The way he bends, graceful, seemingly without straight lines in his entire body, makes Anton think again of herons. Then Viktor points (a peek of ink on the inner wrist that Anton almost catches). “This one.”

He looks at the basket Viktor has indicated. It’s one of the smallest ones, woven like a seashell, with the… The small white flowers with thin petals, and pretty greens, and here is one big flower that looks like a pompom in the middle, and fuck Anton if he knows what it’s called, but it has a sweet gentle aroma.

He rocks on his heels. “Then it’s yours.”

“Mine?” Viktor turns to him, straightening up.

He shrugs once more. “Yeah. Take it. Use it for your designs. It will last for a long time, but if you want, my ki— my florists can show you how to let it dry and stay pretty.”

“You are giving me the basket.”

“Yes. What’s the problem?”

“Not _selling_ it.”

“Giving. This is my shop, I can do whatever I want.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Viktor finally picks the basket with both hands, looking at the flowers with a small smile.

Anton’s irritation drains away.

Maybe there is nothing wrong with _The ASC_ staying.


	4. Interlude

“Should we tell Anton?”

“That his genius strategy of driving _The ASC_ and Mr. Watcher away looks like courtship?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t think we should, Ian. Something’s bothering me about that Viktor man—but Anton looks like he’s having fun. Let him.”

 


	5. Third basket

June comes with a heatwave, and after moving between his establishments to replace his kiddies, after cutting their hours, Anton closes _The Stray_ for anything but evenings, and closes two of the flower shops until the heatwave recedes. Nobody comes anyway.

He sends the kiddies off to _Ocio_ for the final preparations for the night, and sits in the _Vory_ with his chin on the counter. Humidifiers help—but only while he’s inside. The outside is a blazing, white heat. Zhenya complained yesterday that their sandals stick to the sidewalk.

Nobody has been to _The ASC_ since Viktor has opened it in the morning. It seems he has let his artists have a day off, too. Must be lonely in there.

Anton sighs at himself, gets up, checks himself in a mirror, and goes out. The heat punches him right in the face. He crosses the street as quickly as possible, diving into the shade, rushing into the parlor, but gets punched _again_ by the dry cold inside. He rubs his shoulders, feeling underdressed in a thin cotton shirt and pants. The parlor seems empty.

“Design of The Week” features a set of triangles, one inside another inside the third one, with a lightning in the middle, crossed by two horizontal lines.

He goes beyond the reception area. He’s never been in the “business” part of the salon before. There are four sections divided by small screens (gray, with blocky triangle pattern). Everything is very neat and clean, and instead of framed photos there are decals on the walls, geometry and splashes of watercolor.

One comfortably looking enormous armchair is occupied, Viktor reclining in it, long legs stretches, arms folded on his stomach. Eyes closed.

He’s _still_ wearing the gray outfit. Anton gets hot just by looking at him, and not in a pleasant way. There are dark circles under Viktor’s eyes; perhaps, just like Anton, he has trouble sleeping in the heat of night. And Viktor’s skin has that gray tint that speaks of not being out much. Gray suits him overall, but there must be limits.

“Sitting for hours with the AC cranked up is bad for you, you know,” Anton murmurs.

Viktor opens his eyes and sits up, but he doesn’t look startled. Must have heard the bell. Strange that he hasn’t gotten up right away… The heat must be affecting him after all.

“Your consideration is noted, Антон Яковлевич.”

He waves, then rubs his shoulders again. It is so cold. “Just Anton. Do you go out? Not in the heat, of course, but. Want some tea? I have dark chocolate, too.”

“No, thank you.”

He bites his lips. Then sighs. “ _Ocio_ will be having a special night, if you’d care to spend it somewhere else.”

Viktor sits up straighter. “What kind of night?”

Anton feels like an idiot. Why did he suggest it at all? Viktor has indicated he doesn’t want his company. Still. Just to be polite. “A songs night. _Ocio_ is… a _cabaret_ , of sorts. And we are gathering for several occasions… That’s not important, but there will be good singing. Dandolo himself and his husband and daughter. Wine, if you’d like.” Viktor opens his mouth, and Anton hastens to add, “Everything’s decent. And the audience won’t be big, it’s only friends.”

Viktor smiles, those crow’s feet making him look mischievous. “A shame. And here I was hoping for some _in_ decency.”

It’s so startling, in Viktor’s low, low voice, that Anton laughs, relief a warm wave, a protection against the cold. “Well, I said ‘decent’, but you’ll never know how a night might go…”

And now, there is _definitely_ mischief. “Very tempting to find out. Is there a dress code?”

Anton imagines Dandolo in a tux. That would be a show in and of itself. “Something fancy, but which you wouldn’t mind wearing on a hot night. If you want, I’ll pick you up.”

“I live not far away from here, and I know where _Ocio_ is…”

Oh. Of course.

“…But it would be nice if you picked me up. I’ll be your guest then.”

He smiles. “Good. Good, thank you.”

“No, no, thank _you_ for the invitation.” Viktor tells him the address two streets away.

“All right, then, you’d have to close early and I’ll pick you at twenty-thirty.”

“Got it. Thank you again.”

He goes back to his green friends giddy, the day not so dull anymore. He sweeps the floors, dictates messages to Janek and Dandolo, getting a short reply from Dandolo (he must be rehearsing) and a stream of emojis from Janek in return (one of them is, for some reason, an eggplant).

He spends the rest of the day in good spirits, listening to the music on his phone, talking with flowers, bringing up the latest literary podcasts.

The evening comes quick. At six, he notes Viktor closing the salon, and ducks into the cold storage to avoid awkwardness. He can barely stay still.

Finally, an opportunity to learn more about Viktor, to see him out of the gray… No, no, just focus on the mission.

He closes the shop, goes home (whole two stories above the shop). Has a quick bite and a shower, padding the warm floorboards barefoot. He experiences a moment of panic standing in front of the wardrobe, and stops his agonized choice on a white shirt with long sleeves and blue dragons and tigers, plus classy pants. After a moment’s consideration, he picks his old beaten black leather jacket, in case the night goes well into the small hours and the heat recedes so much that there would be a need for a jacket. He checks that his bracelets are holding well, then goes out.

He finds himself at Viktor’s address early. The golden sun is baking his face, and he dozes off a little, sitting on a bench near the house that holds Viktor’s flat.

A shadow falls on his face, and he cracks open one eye—then sits up, eating up the sight of Viktor. He’s wearing light-blue jeans covered with broad diagonal lines that, Anton assumes, are of Viktor’s own design. The jeans hug his legs very nicely. There is a gray shirt, and that almost makes him comment, but then Viktor moves and it _shimmers_ like mother-of-pearl, and the top button is undone, and there is a voluminous red cravat covering Viktor’s throat, and it looks so soft and silky and…

“Good enough?”

“Absolutely stunning,” Anton manages. Then coughs and gets to his feet. “I mean. Yes. Yes, you look very good. For the night. Let’s go?”

Again that smile that brings mischief and softness at the same time to Viktor’s face. “Lead on.”

The sidewalk is pretty narrow, and their arms are brushing, and Viktor is hot.

When they reach _Ocio_ , it’s still pretty early that the usher is not overworked, and Viktor engages them in a friendly chat, then moves through the halls to the floral arrangements, praising them and asking questions to Anton’s kiddies, the authors of the arrangements; compliments Zhenya’s waistcoat, makes talk with the other guests, exchanges polite nods with Sean, then goes to the table they are pointed to and—fades in.

Anton follows, stunned by the whole thing, lowering himself on the seat carefully. How did Viktor do that?

“They have a fine selection of teas and coffee,” Viktor notes, as though he hasn’t just charmed half of _Ocio_ and then became invisible in a bubble of quiet comfort.

“Dandolo doesn’t drink,” Anton says automatically. “And many patrons don’t either.”

“Then I’ll have coffee,” Viktor says, folding the menu.

Anton shakes himself. “Coffee? So late in the evening?”

Viktor smiles. In the half-light of the hall the lines of his face are smudged, and he leans forward, putting his hands on the table. “I’m an owl. I’m very active at night.”

And gets up so early to come to the salon at eight o’clock in the morning. No wondering where the dark circles come from.

He tries to get information out of Viktor, but Viktor only smiles and turns it into small talk and Anton is both impressed and frustrated… and then he’s even more frustrated when Viktor’s coffee arrives. It is mocaccino topped with whipped cream. It can be _weaponized_ , the sight of him picking a small spoon with his long, long fingers, taking off the very top of the whipped cream cone, carrying it to his lips, and then flipping the spoon to lick it off.

Anton gets himself a full pot of sweet fruity tea and holds onto the cup.

He nearly misses the start of the night, but appearance of the stars drags his attention away from Viktor, and he relaxes into the performance, moving his chair slightly closer to Viktor’s (to be able to face the stage, of course).

There is a reason why, along with Dandolo’s original nickname, he is called a peacock. He is beautiful, and his presence is captivating. He is a man of great charm and soft kindness, proud and gentle at the same time. And now it is radiating from him, and his outfit is, too, pretty eye-catching: a blue tunic, simple but it highlights the handsome face, and the stage lights bring forth his tattoos. And there is the golden paint, shimmering on his dark skin, broad and generous on his bottom lip, and in two long lines under his eyes, the captivating green of them magnetic.

His husband, dressed in exact same tunic, is a study in a more restrained handsomeness, Melvin’s pale complexion made striking by the blue of the fabric, his pepper-and-salt hair short, his features sharp—but there is silver on his lips and under his eyes mirroring Dandolo’s.

And then, Niesha, in a short blue dress, but with her hair down and braided rather than pinned up like the usual. The paint on her face imitates tear tracks, one golden, one silver. She looks at her father and gives him a gentle smile.

Together, through a string of songs, they weave a tale—of loss and pain, and ache and longing that are not exactly the same as the word “тоска” that comes to Anton’s mind. They sing in English, Maori, Venetian, Polish, the songs Anton has heard before and some new ones, and Anton sings quietly along to French and Yiddish.

Then, one note as another song starts, and Dandolo _moans_ out—there is no other word—another song.

_“A tangle of traumas, a rash of regrets, a bundle of burdens and yesterdays…”_

Anton knows the song, heard them rehearsing it, but he has never heard it in full. Dandolo’s voice is soulful and sorrowful, eyes half-closed as he sings the phrases, each on a single breath. Then Melvin, his voice not as low, but as leaden with the same pain, joins in, starting the song from the beginning while Dandolo moves the lament of loss forward. Then Niesha, hovering over their voices, almost ethereal but entirely earthly in the hurt, starts it again in the endless sigh, moan, _wail_ of pain, subdued and weary, the canon sometimes harmonious, sometimes discordant.

_“I opened up to my beloved but my love had turned away._

_I called him but he gave no answer_

_What love can heartbreak allow?”_

Anton glances at Viktor.

Viktor looks stunned, face twisted as though someone has gripped his heart. As the song ends with Dandolo quietly repeating the question, Viktor slips off the chair and into the darkness.

Anton debates whether to follow him or let him be. Silence descends upon the audience.

He gets up, trying not to make too much noise. He grabs his jacket, goes out. Streetlights blind him for a moment after the gentle intimate twilight of the hall. He looks around and his heart sinks: there is no sign of Viktor. But then he turns to the alley beside _Ocio_ and makes his way through it to the backyard.

A _tilleul_ —липа—tree occupies most of the round yard, bunches of small yellow flowers like a scattering of stars. Under it, there is a bench, and cobwebs of bluish smoke tangle in the flowers.

“Didn’t know you smoke,” Anton notes quietly, sitting down on the bench. It is warm, everything is warm and full of sweetness that makes his heart ache.

Viktor is reclined forward, one leg stretched, another bent at the knee, his left hand on it, his right holding a slim cigarette to is lips. It smells of the ocean, a strange counterpoint to the sweetness of the flowers.

“A bad habit I allow myself to indulge in once in a while.” Viktor’s voice is low and close like everything in the night. A lone lamp standing in the middle of the yard on a long stem softens his face. He looks thoughtful.

Anton wants to touch the shimmering shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Viktor takes a drag, eyes closing briefly. Summoning patience? Bringing up an act? Viktor lets out a cloud, looks at him. His eyes are so bright and wet. “I cannot say, Anton. And I think that’s good. Thank you for inviting me.”

He smiles. “The night is not over.”

“I’ll return. I only… needed a moment.”

Anton leans on the back of the bench. A light wind brushes his cheek like a caress.

“Those songs…” Viktor says after a few moments of silence. “Do they speak to you because of your losing your home?”

He thinks on the question, wonders what to say. He doesn’t try to untangle why some things touch upon a chord in his heart (he spent so many years doing that, and for nothing), but now that Viktor asks… What should he say?

He looks at the gravel. “It’s that the lover in that last song is a ‘he’.”

“Are you gay?”

It doesn’t… sound hostile—but Anton doubts he’d ever not tense up at this question and its variations. “Isn’t it obvious? I was told I’m pretty… stereotypical.”

“I don’t assume things, as a rule.”

Anton folds the jacket on his lap. “Shame. I _try_ to be as gay-in-your-face as possible. Wasn’t possible at all in Russia.”

“Мы можем говорить по-русски, если хотите.”

“No. English is better. Russian is…” He licks his lips, looks around, strokes the edge of a pocket in the folds of the jacket. “It’s not ideal here, you know. Nowhere is. But _there_ , I felt powerless, I felt like…” It’s difficult to say it—but the song lingers in him, and he cannot not say it. “Nobody spoke about it outright, but everyone would prefer me dead, or to never have existed, you know?” He hates the wobble in his voice. He hopes Viktor doesn’t notice. “And I was so _angry_ , all the time—and when I’m angry, I do things I shouldn’t do. I _did_ such things. So, I left.”

“And became a criminal.”

That doesn’t sound hostile either, but ice runs down Anton’s spine anyway.

“I’m not judging, Anton.” The warmth in Viktor’s voice washes that ice away, but Anton can’t help being tense. “I only want to understand.”

As though the anger and humiliation and hunger and _anger_ can be understood by someone who’s never— “Nowhere is ideal,” he repeats.

“But we should strive to fix what is broken, to ease the pain… Don’t we?”

He looks at Viktor—but Viktor is not looking at him. The cigarette in the long fingers smoking. “I thought I knew what I had to do, what I wanted, thought I knew what was right and wrong, and that what I was doing belonged to the former category. It was so easy. But I…” Viktor frowns, shakes his head, rubs his hands, holding the cigarette in his teeth.

Anton takes the jacket, leans over, and wraps it over Viktor’s shoulders. Even trying to avoid excessive touching, he feels the heat radiating from Viktor. Cold hands but everything else hot…

“You don’t have to,” Viktor says lowly, looking at him. The lamp light is a star lost in his eyes.

He aches to run his fingers through Viktor’s hair. “I want to.”

“Not everything must be how you want it to.”

“Not everything should be how it _must_.”

Viktor looks like he might— But then he turns away.

And here Anton was hoping. For something, he doesn’t know what.

Viktor puts out the cigarette and throws it into the trash bin, then gets up. “Thank you for the night, Anton. I must leave. I’ve work early in the morning.” He pulls the jacket off.

No. Anton can’t have it. He won’t stop Viktor, but… He jumps to his feet, raises his hands. “Keep it. It’s a good walk from here to your place. You can return it to me whenever you want.”

Viktor grips the jacket, then, to Anton’s relief, puts it back on. It looks oversized on him, and fashionably short. “Thank you. Good night, Anton.”

“Good night.”

Viktor’s steps crunch on the gravel, then echo in the alleyway, and then click on the sidewalk.

Anton stands under the fragrant tree, listening to him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Design of The Week" tattoo is David's from [Achievements](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16909662) by Modlisznik.  
> The song Dandolo, Melvin and Niesha are singing is _What Love Can Heartbreak Allow?_ by Ben Caplan.


	6. Fourth basket

Viktor hasn’t come even to return the jacket, and Anton doesn’t know what to make of it. Is it another invitation? Should he go to Viktor’s home? Should he leave Viktor alone?

Anton’s overthinking ends just as the heatwave is broken by a deluge. There is enough water that the street is turned into a small stream. It’s still warm but not unbearably so.

Anton makes two mugs of hot chocolate, puts a bag of pastries into another that would protect it from the rain, squares his shoulders and crosses the street. The salon is empty. He has watched closely so it was so.

He toes off his shoes and leaves them by the door then pads behind the reception area.

Viktor is bent over a desk, stacks of paper in front of him, some covered with dark lines. There is an open ink bottle.

Anton watches, not daring to come closer, as Viktor dips a pen into the bottle and then draws perfect parallel lines on a blank sheet, then makes several fast diagonal strokes.

“Want hot chocolate?”

The pen hovers, then Viktor lowers it on a rolled-up bit of paper. “Anton.”

He puts the bag down in the nearest armchair. “Do you at least eat here? I know it’s difficult to make yourself eat when it’s hot like this—”

“I haven’t returned your jacket.”

He takes out a lid-covered mug and puts it carefully on the empty spot on the desk. Then makes a step back. It is difficult to not clench his fists. “Look at me, Vitya.”

Viktor leans back, shoulders straight. He’s wearing a gray shirt—not the silk one—and a dark cravat.

Anton sighs. “I have croissants here, a sandwich, and buns with jam. Careful, the chocolate is hot.”

“Thank you.”

He turns to go, picking his lone mug—but then Viktor’s voice stops him. “Please stay. I can’t…” Paper rustles, bringing out the aroma of bread. “I don’t think I can eat it all alone.”

Anton closes his eyes. Opens them. And sits down on the edge of the armchair, opening the lid on his mug. “Nice cravat.”

Viktor turns to him, picks the mug. “Thank you. I was meaning to get the jacket back, but it was so…” He looks away, a smile flashing on his face. “It holds well against the rain.”

Anton stops the mug halfway to his lips. Viktor has been… He wore the jacket. Even after that night. “Well, you can… keep it for the rain.”

Viktor takes a sip, licks his lips. “Dark chocolate? Good. Thank you.” He stretches his legs out. “I feel that I must apologize for leaving that night so abruptly.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he notes, and means it. Then digs into the bag and fishes out a croissant, trying not to get crumbs everywhere. He looks up and catches Viktor’s eye.

Viktor raises the mug quickly. “No. No, I should. I was rather… There was so much on my mind that I had to get away.”

“From _Ocio_?”

“From…” Viktor doesn’t finish it, shakes his head, takes a croissant from the bag and taps on it to get rid of the crumbles, then bites into it.

Anton steals a bite or two but makes sure most of the pastries are eaten by Viktor as he sips on the hot chocolate. When the pastries are finished, Viktor gets up, goes to the back of the salon. carries out a small broom and a dustpan, somehow predictably gray, sweeps the crumbs, picks the empty bag and goes to the back with them.

Anton glances at the designs stacked on the desk. The topmost is a complex knotwork without a line out of shape, without a blot of ink… He wonders whether this is how Viktor’s thoughts are, orderly, guided by a steady will.

But the small monologue from the _Ocio_  night doesn’t leave his head. Viktor’s speech quirk thicker than before, his sentences torn and their meaning opaque…

“I couldn’t sleep that night,” Viktor says, returning, and Anton leans back.

“Because of the songs?”

Viktor smiles. “Yes. But mostly, because of you.”

He grips the cup, a million things running through his mind, until Viktor halts them with: “I noticed your tattoos. They were visible through that shirt. May I see?”

His thoughts rush into a different direction after the halt. “All of them?”

“As many as you’d care to show.” Viktor perches on the desk.

Anton swallows. Puts the mug on the desk. He’s suddenly aware that he’s got rained on during his quick dash across the street, and the shirt is clinging to his shoulders, and it’s a light shirt, right, it’s…

He nearly tears off several buttons, folds it on the armchair, then takes off the undershirt.

Viktor gets away from the desk, goes behind him. Anton knows, intellectually, that the temperature is comfortable in the salon, but it feels like the heat of the past week has poured in. He rolls his shoulders—tenses up, realizing it might look like he’s showing off. But the more he tries to stand still, the harder it gets.

“Very good work,” Viktor’s voice rolls over his shoulder. He can’t even hear Viktor’s steps. “You aren’t allergic to red paint?”

“No,” Anton croaks. Clears his throat and repeats, “No.”

“Good to know…”

Know for _what_?

Viktor circles him, and he tries to keep his gaze on the mugs on the desk.

“You don’t…” Viktor stops in front of him, and lifts a hand—and Anton nearly, nearly leans towards it—but then Viktor drops it. “You don’t cover your scars.”

He rolls his shoulders again, looks Viktor in the face. “No. That’s what I ask of the artists. Working the scars _into_ the design, not cover them.”

There is a frown on Viktor’s face. “You have a load of work to do, then. So many scars…”

And not all of them currently on display, even. Not all tattoos either.

Anton touches the round bullet scar under his left clavicle and says, caught in the moment, “I’d like you to work on this one.”

Viktor looks up into his eyes, the frown smoothing out, turning into surprise. “Me? Why?”

Now he feels stupid again. Should have asked whether Viktor would like to. “I like geometry.”

Viktor chuckles, the sound making the heat roll in waves. “I can see that. You can be used as a coloring book. Could you…” Viktor leans to him and then longs fingers close on his chin and tilt his head away from the left shoulder.

Anton’s heart is hammering so hard he’s sure Viktor can hear it. “Vitya,” he whispers, and the fingers tighten on his chin. Блядство. За что ему это? “Vitya, are you…”

“I can work on it, yes.”

Then the long fingers let go of him, and he’s ready to throw a mug to the wall. He picks the shirt with shaking hands and throws it over his shoulders, not bothering with the undershirt. Idiot. He should keep this stuff down. This is _not_ the way he planned to drive Viktor away.

He doesn’t even want to drive Viktor away anymore.

“I’m demi, Anton. That’s—”

“I know what that means.” Is he so transparent? He’s losing his grip. He wouldn’t have allowed anyone do this to him.

Do what?..

He bunches up the undershirt, grabs the empty mugs.

“Anton.”

Fuck this. Fuck everything. He’s grown soft and vulnerable. Perhaps it’s time to leave, not just the parlor, but the street, the city…

“ _Tosha_.”

Well. Guess he deserves that, after slipping “Vitya”. He sighs, turns to Viktor. “I’m sorry, just forget about it, I—”

Viktor bends to him and licks his lips. “You have chocolate here,” he murmurs, pulling back just as quickly. “And I’m into men, too.”

Anton _does_ drop the mug.


	7. Fifth basket

Two shattered mugs, and pacing, pacing, _pacing_ and regretting that he shaves his head, because he’d rather run his fingers into his hair and pull and try to convince himself that what has happened, has been real. Or _not_ real.

That is the price of his idiocy.

He’s soft, he’s soft, and he paces his flat, shirt open. To the coat rack, to the wall, to the window, to another wall, to the coat rack again.

At some point he realizes he can barely see. At another, he feels wetness on his cheeks, and wipes it off in irritation.

He should leave. He should leave.

How can he leave? His children, his friends, the life he’s carved for himself here? His freedom such as it is? The songs and flowers and old schemes and jokes, Dandolo’s bracelets on his wrist, Zachariah’s and Andrew’s and Innocence’s graduation, Zhenya’s naivety, Misha’s daughter? Janek would have nightmares.

He swallows, swallows again, feeling trapped. He can’t leave.

It’s not right. None of it.

He picks his phone, scrolls through the contacts, letters all wrong, and his throat too tight to issue a voice command, but the contact he’s looking for should be the last one, because it’s the only Cyrillic one.

He hits the green button, and listens to ringing, trying to get himself under control.

“Anton?”

“Привет, ведьмочка. Еще дышишь?”

Bulgakova is silent for a while. He hears something clinking on her side. He hopes he doesn’t sound too hysterical.

“Антон, ты в порядке? У тебя же там ночь!”

“Да? Как-то не заметил. Ты же меня знаешь. Можно тебя попросить кое о чем?”

Again, a moment of silence. He can’t remember the time difference between them.

“Конечно.”

“Спасибо, милая. Нужно узнать про одного человека... Всё, что получится. Делать ничего не надо, только разузнать.” He tells her the name, description, address, everything he knows (except for a couple of things).

He throws the phone on the pillow, then sinks on the bed, head in his hands.

He doesn’t remember how he falls asleep.

He wakes up from a touch, Ian’s face over him. For a few blissful moments he’s disoriented—but then, he remembers and, judging by Ian’s deepening frown, it shows right on his face.

Anton props himself on an elbow, closes the shirt on his chest. “Janek? What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t show up at the shop, or anywhere else,” Dandolo’s voice startles him.

The flat is bathed in heat and light. How long has he been asleep? He feels rumpled. _Old_. “What time is it?” His tongue is thick in his mouth.

Ian hands him a glass of water, and he downs it in one go, but it doesn’t help much.

“Half past four,” Ian says. The frown doesn’t go away.

When did he fall asleep? He can’t remember.

He gets up, throws the shirt off onto the chair and pulls on a T-shirt from a drawer. “What, you got worried because I disappeared for a couple of hours?”

“You disappeared _yesterday_ , Anton.” Dandolo is uncharacteristically… Anton glances at him. Dandolo is leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest. He looks weary.

Anton tries not to panic. Or rather, not to _show_ panic. “You could have called.”

“We did, Antek,” Ian says quietly. He sits down in an armchair. “You weren’t picking up.”

“Was tired…” He stops, then looks around, goes to the armchair, makes Ian get away. He finds his phone under a pillow on the bed and scrolls through missed calls list. The photos are only of Dandolo and Janek, and the little arrow near Bulgakova’s name if the blue of an outgoing call, not the red of a missed one.

At four in the morning.

“Anton? Brother, is it Viktor?”

Dandolo’s question helps him place the taste in his mouth. Chocolate. They had hot chocolate, and then…

“It’s nothing.”

“ _The ASC_ is closed.”

He turns to Ian. “Wha—” The phone buzzes, and he holds up a finger then accepts the call. “Да, милая?”

“Он из ФБР. Он… Антон? _Антон?_ ”

He’s not listening anymore, he cannot hear anything but the roar in his ears, the killkillKILL singing in his blood—but something is holding him, and he twists, kicks, punches, but the restraints are tighter, and Dandolo’s voice rumbles into his ear, _“What are you doing?”_

He digs his nails into Dandolo’s arm holding him across the chest like a bar, but Dandolo doesn’t even wince, and when he kicks back, Dandolo wraps his leg over his.

He trashes, a wordless roar tearing from his throat.

_“Anton!”_

And just like that, it’s gone, it draws back into his core, burning away the air in his lungs.

“Anton,” Dandolo’s voice rolls over him gently, the hold turning into an embrace.

He’d sink to the floor without it. “I’ll kill him.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“No. No, you won’t. Come on.”

They steer him towards the bed, sit him down, press another glass into his hands—and he obeys, he obeys, because what choice does he have? What choice has he ever had?

Maybe he _should_ have disappeared. Maybe he should have never existed.

“What has happened?” Dandolo asks, and so gently that Anton wants to smash the glass in his face.

“That… that _fuck_. He’s FBI.” He has to ease his hold on the glass, because it might shatter.

“And you think he’s here…” Ian trails off.

“Why else would he be here?” Why else would anyone be interested in him? “I mean, specifically here, right across… Right across my shop, my _flat_. And I believed that he… Блядство.” He downs the glass, the flame inside him rising again. “I will not have _anyone_ tailing me. I will torch the place.”

“ _No_ ,” Dandolo says firmly, gripping his wrist, and he tries to tear it away—but Dandolo is ever so stronger in many ways.

“Anton. _Talpa_. Look at me.”

He stares at the floorboards.

“Anton. You _won’t_ commit arson and you _won’t_ commit murder. Because you will be locked up again and _your children will suffer, too_.”

He knows. He knows, and hates Dandolo for reminding him that he knows, hates Janek for… being here. For having to take care of him.

“Antek. You stubborn man.” Ian sighs. “Just _talk_ to him, will you? I’m sure it can be resolved without drastic measures.” Ian’s hand closes over his just like Dandolo is holding his wrist. “Не хочу тебя потерять.”

He bounces his leg. They are still holding him.

“Just talk?”

“Just talk. But you have to promise, _talpa_.”

“I can’t promise I won’t punch him.”

Ian sighs. “Guess some things are too much to ask for.”

He huffs. “All right. Promise. I promise I won’t kill him and won’t set _The ASC_ on fire.”

They hug him from both sides, and that makes the world feels slightly softer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the first talk with Bulgakova:  
> “Hello, little witch. Still breathing?”  
> “Anton, are you all right? It should be night time over there!”  
> “Yeah? I didn’t notice. You know me. May I ask you for something?”  
> “Of course.”  
> “Thank you, dear. I’d like to find something out about one person… Everything that can be found. Don’t do anything else, just research him.”


	8. Design

They make him get himself in proper condition: he takes a shower, puts on fresh clothes. He is lured out of the bedroom by the smell of cooking. It turns out to be an enormous omelet with as many spices and vegetables as Dandolo has managed to find in his fridge and pantry.

They give him the latest news as they share the meal: the Trio is returning to town just in time for Innocence’s birthday, and there are plans to throw a block party for him. Mary is coming, too, with her girlfriend, and that means Janek will be excited talking non-stop about research.

He eats and listens, and thinks that he’s lucky to have found friends.

At last the meal is over.

He goes to fetch his leather jacket, just for the comfort of its weight… Then remembers he hasn’t picked it from Viktor. Now at least he has an excuse to make a visit.

He goes to _The ASC_ first, but as Dandolo said, it is closed, and the blinds are down. Maybe even that flat will be empty, maybe Viktor never even lived there…

He makes a couple steps away from the parlor—and a bell rings as the door is thrown open.

“Антон Яковлевич!”

Anton licks his lips, rubs a coin he finds in his pocket, then turns to Viktor. “Mr. Watcher. I rather hoped we would talk.”

“Then come in.”

He goes. Viktor moves out of his way, and that both enrages and saddens Anton. He toes off his shoes, waits until Viktor closes and locks the door. Viktor is wearing a gray-blue shirt and the red cravat Anton knows. Perhaps it’s deliberate.

There is that spine again, and Anton hates himself for wanting to count the vertebrae with his fingers.

Viktor turns to him. “Антон Я—”

“Were you going to tell me you are FBI?”

Something shuts in Viktor’s face, and Anton wants so hard to break windows. But he promised, and he will keep the promise to his friends.

“ _Former_ FBI,” Viktor says, puts his hands in his pockets… The fuck is _mirroring_ him.

“There are no fucking former FBI!”

“I’m standing right before you. And please don’t swear.”

“I will do whatever the fuck I want, you fu—” He closes his eyes, presses his lips together, tilts his head back. He can always fuck shit up later. He breathes out. “I’m sorry. I’ll try not to. But I want you to talk.” He opens his eyes again.

Viktor… Frankly, he looks like shit, like he hasn’t slept for at least a week, with sunken cheeks and that characteristic pinched expression. Even though he’s handsome as ever.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

He throws his hands up. “Everything. You, a _former_ FBI, and me, here. That’s not a coincidence.”

An internal war is a shadow on Viktor’s face, and a couple of days ago Anton would have taken up arms and stood side by side with him against whatever he was facing.

He waits.

Viktor frowns, focuses on him. “I _am_ FBI. Formerly, believe it or not. And a tattoo artist, and it’s really my parlor.”

“Where are your artists, by the way?”

“Doing a workshop in another location.” Viktor falls silent for a moment. “I needed… I _needed_ to meet you, to know you, so I moved here.”

Oh wow. “So you _are_ tailing me.”

“No. Not like that.” Vik goes to the reception desk, starts picking up paper, rightening stacks. Runs a hand over the desktop. “I had everything. I _thought_ I did. It’s not a work you can put down; it takes _everything_ , swallows you whole, reshapes you. But unlike some, I didn’t gave a family that would try to borrow me from work, and I was fine. Until… Until…” Vik’s words are torn, mangled by whatever’s afflicting him, and he hooks a finger under the cravat, and looks at Anton, so lost that Anton sways to him.

“There was a shootout between gangs, and it was my…” Vik’s mouth twists. He’s so _animated_ , instead of his usual poise. It’s like seeing a fabric unravel. A line out of place in a clever design that ruins everything.

“Vitya…”

“A stray bullet… But it changed everything. Or maybe I thought it did.” Vik pulls the cravat off.

The black lines on Vik’s throat are… perfect. Symmetrical, some shapes completely filled, others only a contour. They are a scattering of triangles, squares—all straight, sure lines. They cascade down onto his shoulders, as much as Anton can see in the collar, and rise up to the soft underside of his jaw.

Anton goes to him, drawn, reaches up. Vik doesn’t move away—he pushes his cheek into Anton’s palm, closes his eyes.

“The bullet shattered my jaw.”

And he can feel it, the irregularities in the bone, something… not quite right, under the guise of the ink. And the lines are not exactly straight—they are _made_ to look straight and perfect if you watch them from the front or from the side. But they are covering the shape of scars.

Is this what Vik thinks of himself? Imperfection, to be forced into the ideal?

“The boss of one of the gangs,” Vik says quietly, and his voice… It travels through the bone, through flesh, to Anton’s fingers. “Was shot, too, so the reports said.” And his cold fingers touch under Anton’s left clavicle. “Here.”

“Vitya.”

“I needed to…” Steely eyes close again. “I was unfit for duty anymore. Suicide attempts, anger issues… What, is that so surprising? I couldn’t speak. I don’t even remember much of the first months, just pain, oblivion, and anger, burning inside. And then I was told they didn’t need me anymore, thank-you-for-your-service-but… It was my _entire life_. And I lost it. Just because…” Vik presses his cheek tighter into his palm.

He strokes Vik’s jaw with his fingertips. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m managing.”

“Does it _hurt_?”

“…Yes. Sometimes. And it’s difficult to talk.”

“I noticed.”

“It’s terrible.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, and I will fu— mess up anyone who gives you grief over it.”

Vik’s skin is smooth under his fingers. He wonders whether shaving hurts, too. Блядство.

“I… wanted to get myself whole again. So I started designing a tattoo.”

“This one.” He runs a thumb over one triangle, beating with Vik’s pulse.

“Yes. It needed to be _perfect_.” Vik huffs. “I went through a whole stack of paper. But it helped. And when the work on it started, it helped, too. Still. I needed to find you. To understand…”

He runs his fingers up the cut of Vik’s jaw and to the back of his head. Scratchy a little. “Why didn’t you tell me about any of it?”

“And to risk you breaking my jaw again after telling you I used to work on you?”

He snorts. “Okay, you have a point. I would have done that. I’m sorry. But you came here, you saw me.”

“And I knew that eventually you’d find out.”

“And probably try to break your jaw again, yes. Though actually I considered murder and arson.”

“Arson?” Vik looks so adorably confused, and Anton rubs the frown between his brows with a pad of his thumb until Vik’s face smooths out.

“Yeah. Setting this place on fire. But, Vitya, you probably know my profile.”

“Your full name, that you are Russian—yes. Read your papers, too.”

He raises his brows, but let’s Vik continue.

“But here, I’ve met your friends, your ‘kiddies’. I’ve learned that you like music, that you talk to flowers…”

He looks away. “That’s…”

“That you are generous and angry and… The glow of it all.”

“You can have it, Vitya.” The edges of the design, just a few faint lines, are on his chin, and Anton rubs it, too, carefully. “Was there nobody by your side when you were…”

“No. I’m not one to make friends.”

“You can have them.”

“I don’t need them.”

He sighs, steps away, even though Vik reaches after him. “Tell me what you want, Vitya.”

Vik drops his hand, looks away, picks the cravat and starts folding it into neat squares. “Is it important?”

This is a mess. This is a terrible mess. And he should leave it at that.

Except…

“You are broken, Vitya,” he says quietly, and hurt twists Vik’s face, but Anton goes on, “And I don’t say I’m all right myself. But it doesn’t matter. Well, it matters, but…” He waves. “I want you regardless. With your infuriating stoicism and your silences and lies. We’ll work through it. At least…” He smiles. “You told me you’d do the tattoo for me. I want to see how it would work out.” He takes Vik’s hand, rubs his wrist. There are scars there, too, and ink covering them.

Vik looks at him with his bright, wet eyes.

Anton wants them to light up with happiness more often. He’d make it happen. There is a place for love even after heartbreak.


End file.
